


while you're wondering what the hell to do

by seeingrightly



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeingrightly/pseuds/seeingrightly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Eames," Arthur says. "Phillipa asked me to feed her fish while they're visiting Mal's parents for the week. I got here and the thing was already dead. What the hell am I supposed to do?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	while you're wondering what the hell to do

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by fishspots @ lj. Title lyric from Mika's "Blame it on the Girls".

“Shit,” Arthur says as soon as he hears the other line pick up, holding his cell phone in one hand while the other pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shit.”

“What’s the matter, darling?” Eames answers, sounding mildly concerned. The refrigerator door slams shut in the background.

“The fish is dead.” Arthur stares from where he’s slumped in one of Cobb’s kitchen chairs, eying the little bowl over on the counter. It’s covered in these plastic rhinestone stickers and there’s mushy fish food dotting the surface of the water. The blue betta is unnaturally nestled against the marbles piled at the bottom of the bowl.

“What are you talking about, Arthur? It isn’t even under your control yet. How could you have killed it already?” He’s definitely amused and Arthur grits his teeth, glaring at the bowl and its multicolored cheer.

“I don’t fucking know, but I got here and it wasn’t moving, not even when I tapped on the bowl. When I picked the bowl up it kind of… flopped over and its fins drifted around in the water but I’m pretty sure it’s dead.”

“Don’t fish float upside-down after they die?” Eames asks distractedly. There’s knife thumping against a hard surface, so he must have the phone held against his shoulder in the meantime, the idiot. “I suppose it wouldn’t be tasteful of me to let you know I’m making salmon for dinner.”

“Eames,” Arthur says. “Phillipa asked me to feed her fish while they’re visiting Mal’s parents for the week. I got here and the thing was already dead. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Well, bring the poor fishy here and we’ll see if there’s anything to be done about it. Maybe it’s just taking a nap.”

Arthur sighs. He tries _so_ hard to be patient. He decides, with Eames, it’s best to just continue with the most pressing issue, the one he has a chance of actually making some ground on.

“I can’t exactly drive and hold a fish bowl at the same time.”

“Right,” Eames says thoughtfully, like he’s picturing Arthur attempting this. “Okay, how about I drive over there and I can hold the bowl while you drive back, and we’ll just pick up my car tomorrow or something.”

“Okay,” Arthur agrees, but he won’t be surprised if he comes to regret it.

“I can’t believe you killed Veronica,” Eames says, and then he hangs up.

~

Phillipa had stood there with her big brown Mal eyes, pouting just a little, holding the fish bowl snug against her chest, saying _pleasepleaseplease_ every few seconds, and it had killed Arthur, it really had. It killed him because he had no intention of babysitting – hell, he could barely handle James and Phillipa when Cobb was around, so how could he be expected to effectively manage this tiny living eating breathing (well, it requires respiration, at least) _thing_ on his own? And he hated to have to tell her that. So he didn’t.

“Why don’t you ask Ari to watch your fish, huh?” he’d asked, ignoring the death glare coming from the other couch.

“But Arthur,” Phillipa said, sticking her bottom lip out a little further, “you’re the best. You always say you’re the best. You have to watch Veronica.”

Cobb had outright snorted at that, not even flinching when James bashed him on the knee with a toy airplane. There was some sort of airborne dogfight going on in the vicinity of Cobb’s torso.

“She has a point, Arthur,” he said, not even bothering to try to conceal a shit-eating grin. “You do say that a lot.”

“Well there’s no point in lying about it, is there,” Eames said easily. He was lounging next to Arthur, leg crossed and foot bouncing a little, and maybe Arthur should have made him move his arm out from behind his shoulders by now. “Especially if it leads to wonderful job offers such as this.”

“You don’t want to watch her?” Phillipa asked, and she was using that quiet, sad voice that always broke Arthur. That was the voice that convinced him to play dress-up and horsey and Save the Princess. That was just about the only voice that could make him do what he didn’t want to do.

“It’s not quite that he doesn’t want to, pet,” Eames said, leaning forward and touching a finger to the rim of the fish bowl. “It’s just that, well, I think Arthur’s worried he won’t do a very good job. But we know better, don’t we.”

Arthur let his eyes slide shut and his mouth draw into a firm line. He was going to be watching this fucking fish.

Phillipa gave Arthur a once-over, her eyebrows drawing close as she squinted him down. It was creepy. Arthur kind of felt like he was being extracted from.

“Maybe,” she said suspiciously.

“Well, I think he can do it.” Eames slid his finger along the rim of the bowl. It squeaked gently. “But I’ve had a few pet fish in my day, you know. I can take care of a fish. So you don’t have anything to worry about, right?”

“Excuse me, _what_ ,” Ariadne said flatly. She was staring over her mug, mouth open slightly.

“I’ll be helping,” Eames said. “With… the fish.”

“Veronica,” interjected Phillipa.

“Yes, with Veronica.”

“What, like, you’ll be there and able to help,” Ariadne said. “You’ll _be there_. Like. _With Arthur_.”

“Yes?” Eames shifted his hand away from the bowl, sitting back, but he placed it instead on Arthur’s leg, just above the knee.

“What, you’re telling me you’re _living together_ or something?” Ariadne scoffed into her coffee.

“Oh,” Arthur said suddenly, turning to Eames. He thought about the apartment, designed with hard lines and bold colors. He thought about the apartment, full of mismatched thrift furniture in horrible patterns. The apartment, covered in clothing that wouldn’t fit him and books he wouldn’t read and things that just weren’t him at all.

“Oh.”

“Yes, darling.” Eames squeezed his thigh gently.

“You’ve moved in, haven’t you,” Arthur said gravely.

“Quite some time ago, actually. Thank you for noticing, love.”

“Does this mean you two will watch Veronica?” Phillipa asked brightly, shoving the bowl toward Arthur.

~

He’s still sitting there, glaring, when Eames strolls in maybe ten minutes later.

“Poor bugger.” He pokes at the fish bowl to no avail. “We’ll give little fishy until tomorrow to resurrect himself.” He lifts the bowl gingerly, water sloshing close to the rim.

“Herself,” Arthur corrects absently. “And then what?” He locks the door once Eames follows him outside.

“And then I suppose we buy a new one and hope Philly can’t tell the difference. She’s seven. We should be fine.” He’s careful, climbing into the low car and strapping himself in with the fish bowl in one hand.

“If you spill that in my car,” Arthur says, pulling slowly out of the driveway, leaving Eames’ car behind.

“No worries,” Eames says brightly, one hand wrapped around the rhinestones and the other supporting the base, just above his lap. He lets out a yelp moments later, as Arthur pulls an exaggeratedly careful turn and his arms shift.

“There’s dead fishy water on me,” Eames says slowly. It’s dripping off of his hands and onto his lap and –

“There’s dead fishy water on the fucking Dior coat I bought you,” Arthur growls. He hits a slight pot hole and Eames holds his arms up higher, grimacing. On the next turn he tilts his arms, trying to counteract the precarious rising of the water to one side of the bowl. The fish flops gently along the floor of marbles with each shift of gravity. Arthur can’t remember the last time he drove with such caution and regard for traffic rules.

“Right,” Eames says once he’s placed the bowl on the kitchen counter. “I’m going to wash my hands about six times, and then I’m going to make something with chicken, or beef, or fuck, we can go vegetarian, I don’t care.”

“So we’re just leaving it here for now?” Arthur asks. He edges his way toward the living room but doesn’t look away from the bowl.

“For now,” Eames calls from the bathroom. “And then tomorrow if it’s still dead, we’ll go get a new one.”

~

It’s still dead tomorrow.

There’s a pet store a few towns over, maybe a half an hour away. They’re in the suburbs just outside of L.A., not too far from the house that still looks of Mal. It’s all small towns with a handful of stores and restaurants to each, but it’s close enough to the city world for Arthur.

The way he’s driving they’ll make it there in half the usual time. He barely halts at a stop sign, drumming his pulse into the steering wheel. Eames catches one of his hands – they both know he can drive just as well with only the other on the wheel – and restrains it, cradling it in his own lap.

“I don’t know why you need to wear a bloody waist coat to buy a fish.”

“I’m me. Why wouldn’t I?” Arthur asks absently.

Eames snorts, tracing the lines of his palm with his fingertips, and then he says, “I know how ridiculous you are about these things but you could just stop being guilty already. It was dead before you got there, and don’t tell me you should have gotten there sooner, because the damn thing didn’t even eat the food it was given the day before, did it.”

Arthur frowns, deep lines in his forehead and his shoulders hunched, as he pulls into the parking lot. He slides his hand away from Eames to put the car in park.

“Phillipa asked me to take care of it,” he says, and it’s extremely petulant but he doesn’t care.

“This is not your goddamn fault, you stupid ass,” Eames sighs, half exasperated and half amused, like he doesn’t understand where Arthur came from or how to handle him. He reaches over and grabs Arthur by the chin, kissing him once, quickly. “And you call me ridiculous.” He presses his thumb to the wrinkle between Arthur’s eyebrows and smoothes his finger down the bridge of his nose, smiling. “Come on.”

The store has more than twenty blue betta fish, and none of them look quite right. Finally they settle on one that seems to be a solid dark blue and seems to have big enough fins and a long enough tail. Arthur can only hope it looks similar enough to the one they’d flushed down the toilet maybe an hour ago.

Eames is grinning when he sits in the passenger seat, holding up the plastic bag victoriously. The fish floats in a little circle within its hovering globe of water.

“No spills today,” he says, just barely resting the bag against his thigh, a firm grip around the knot in the plastic. Arthur still drives much more slowly than usual.

“It’s only five days,” Arthur says as Eames sprinkles little pellets into the water.

“We should be able to keep the thing alive for that long, yeah?” Eames agrees.

“Hopefully,” Arthur mutters, folding his arms and leaning back against the kitchen counter. He glares down at the fish bowl.

“Hey,” Eames says quietly, capping the fish food and placing it next to the bowl. When Arthur doesn’t look up, he sidles over, feet on either side of Arthur’s and hands gentle on his hips. “Hey,” he breathes, barely pressing them together. Arthur huffs a sigh into his mouth, parting their lips. One of his hands grasps at the front of Eames’ shirt.

“Hey,” Arthur whispers, sliding his tongue across Eames’ teeth, letting the line of his shoulders drop and his legs slide a little further apart. Eames takes advantage of that, shoving a thigh between them, growling. Arthur pulls back, and says firmly, “Hey. Not in front of the fish.”

Eames snorts and Arthur’s No Really I’m Actually Very Serious face slips into a grin. He laughs a little as Eames brushes a thumb across one of his dimples, and then drags it slowly along his bottom lip.

“You are positively adorable when you fret over inane things, you know,” Eames says, kissing Arthur’s nose when he scrunches it up in disagreement.

“Murder isn’t inane,” Arthur says, just to be contrary.

“It was accidental. If anything it was manslaughter.” Eames grabs Arthur’s waist. “Not in front of the fishy, hmm?” he asks, walking backwards, shuffling them along. “Well let’s go then.”

Arthur mouths at Eames’ neck, his laughter muffled when they crash into the doorframe on their way to the bedroom.

They fuck long and slow in the center of the bed – their bed – spread out on top of the comforter Arthur had just rearranged a couple of hours ago. Arthur’s been thinking in terms of _the_ for months now – the apartment, the bedroom, the bed. Nothing’s been just his for ages. But now, now it’s theirs. It’s their home. Arthur lets out a stuttering gasp and arches is back off their bed, clenching his fingers in Eames’ hair when he comes. Eames buries his face in Arthur’s neck and lets out a quiet moan, and when Arthur can see straight again Eames is passing his thumb over one of his dimples.

“We should get up,” Arthur manages eventually. “It’s not even noon.”

“It’s not like we have work this week,” Eames tells his collarbone, but then his stomach grumbles. “What can we make for lunch that doesn’t involve anything with gills?”

They eat grilled cheese on the patio out back. Eames is barefoot, wearing jeans and one of Arthur’s old track sweatshirts from high school, procured from the depths of the closet. Arthur has his legs crossed on top of Eames’. The socks are his, but the ragged sweatpants and Manchester United shirt, both comfortably loose, certainly aren’t.

“We can do this for the rest of the week,” Eames says. Arthur watches him tug absently at one of the hoodie strings and hums in agreement.

~

They strategize this time.

In the end they’d decided the best plan would be to just stick a Ziploc bag around the whole fish bowl and seal it shut for the duration of the car ride. Eames is still meticulous, like he’s holding an actual baby or something, when he slides into the car.

“Ready to go home, Fishy?” he nearly croons as he buckles his seatbelt.

Arthur pauses with the key halfway in the ignition. The past few days have not quite been enough time to get used to that. He still drives extra carefully and slowly. By Arthur standards, at least.

“What if she realizes it’s not the same fish,” he says flatly as he rolls into Cobb’s driveway.

“Just don’t act suspicious, Arthur.” Eames holds the plastic-sheathed bowl to his chest as he walks to the front door. “Honestly. Just let me take care of it, then, if you’re still that worried about it. It’ll go over fine.”

For a moment Arthur considers how funny it is that they’re not concerned about what Cobb will think if he finds out. Then Eames rings the doorbell and Phillipa, somewhere inside, lets out an excited shriek and his stomach folds itself over a few times.

“Hi,” Phillipa says, thrusting her open hands in the air before the door is even open fully. Eames slips the Ziploc bag off the bowl and hands it over carefully. Arthur holds his breath when Phillipa skitters off with the bowl between her palms.

Cobb appears from the kitchen then, grinning, and Arthur is kind of worried about that.

“Look at that,” Cobb says. “I spent _years_ lamenting over your incapability of proper teamwork, but there you go. You did manage to keep the damn thing alive for a week. Maybe I should’ve enforced cohabitation ages ago.”

“Cobb.” Eames stops dead in his tracks as they head for the living room. “Are you actually suggesting that you wish you had – had played _matchmaker_ or something and gotten the two of us fucking earlier, so that we’d have done a better job at helping you break the law on a regular basis?”

Yeah, the despondent look slides back onto Cobb’s face a little at that.

“Not quite so graphically,” he says faintly. Then he glances away from Eames. “Arthur, what’s with the guilty face?”

“What,” Arthur says tonelessly. It’s the only way he can avoid sounding very, very, very guilty, but it’s still a blatant maneuver. Because Arthur is the least subtle ever and he hates himself for that.

“Arthur, why are you doing the guilty shifty eyes?” Cobb asks, narrowing his own. Soon he’ll be full-on squinting. Arthur always cracks under the squint.

Eames is glancing back and forth between them, his hand gravitating to Arthur’s lower back. If Eames did nervous, he’d probably look pretty nervous right about now.

Then James comes bouncing into the room.

“Why did Phil get a new fish?” he mumbles in that way little kids half-pronounce their words, tugging on his dad’s pantleg.

“What do you mean, Jamie?” Cobb asks, stroking a hand across the kid’s hair. “Arthur and Eames just brought Veronica back.”

“No,” James says, shaking his head. Cobb looks at Arthur, and there’s the squint.

“You didn’t,” he starts, but then Phillipa enters the room, holding the fish bowl out in front of her like a baby with a dirty diaper.

“This,” she says distastefully, “is not my Veronica.” She gives Arthur a _look_. She’s not crying or anything. She just looks… faintly disappointed, like she knows he could have done better. It’s positively terrifying.

“Phil,” he starts, but she shakes her head.

“Here.” She thrusts the bowl at him. He stares. She thrusts the bowl at Eames. Eames takes it immediately. Of course he does, the bastard.

“Daddy,” Phillipa says, “can I get a turtle?”

~

Arthur is sitting in his own kitchen – in his and Eames’ kitchen – this time, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing into his phone. He can’t get away with cursing now though.

“Clyde really wants a play date,” Phillipa says.

It would be unreasonable for Arthur to try to explain to a seven-year-old all of the reasons a play date between a turtle and a betta fish would be completely, well, unreasonable. He just barely contains himself.

“I know that he would be really good friends with – what did you name your fish?”

Arthur sighs, “One second.” He places his palm over the receiver. “Eames, what did you name the damn fish?”

Eames looks up from where he’s dropping pellets into the bedazzled little bowl.

“Hmm,” he says. “What is your name, Fishy?”

Arthur blinks, and then moves his palm out of the way.

“I think its name is just Fishy,” he says. “And everyone tells me I have no imagination.”

Eames snatches the phone right out of his grasp and says, “Listen, Philly, we’ll have a play date tomorrow, yeah? We’ll stop by before work and you can have him for the day. Good? Good. Alright. See you in the morning, pet.”

“Great,” Arthur says, taking the phone and placing it on the counter. “We still have to figure out a better way to transport the damn fish bowl without spilling everywhere.”

“Well.” Eames slides behind him, arms snug around Arthur’s waist, nuzzling behind his ear. “We could get a bigger tank with a lid. Could probably use a filter too. Maybe get Fishy a few friends while we’re at it.”

“I hate you,” Arthur says, leaning back against Eames.

“You’re just lucky the apartment complex doesn’t allow anything with fur,” Eames says into the side of his neck, nipping at his earlobe.

~

“I can’t see,” James says for the fifth time, so Arthur hauls him up, resting the kid on one hip where he can see over the counter. If he had a suit on he’d think twice about it, but Eames had convinced Arthur to throw on his ridiculously expensive jeans and those sneakers he’d bought for him, and he’d topped it off with a Star Wars t-shirt he’d found in the closet, just because.

“I like the pretty rocks at the bottom.” Phillipa nearly has her nose against the side of the fish tank, her breath and fingertips smudging the glass. “Who chose red?”

“I did, love,” Eames says dropping all the bags Cobb overstuffed on the living room floor. “You know I have better taste than Arthur, come on.”

Phillipa grins and says, “I like the green fish. What’s his name?”

“Why don’t you name all the new ones?” Eames brushes her untidy hair off her forehead.

“You might regret that,” Arthur mutters. “I’m going to order pizza, alright?” He shifts James around – he’s five and kind of heavy after a bit – and grabs the phone. Eames stares at him for a moment, and something in his amused expression goes softer.

“Here.” Eames slides James onto his own hip and, almost as an afterthought, presses a quick kiss to Arthur’s lips. He leans close to the tank again, over Phillipa’s head, and asks, “So, what are we going to call the green one?”

By the time the pizza arrives they have Betty, Chrysanthemum, Roger, Lucifer, Stan, Amy, and, of course, Fishy. Arthur hopes Eames will remember who is who, because he sure won’t.

“Can we watch a movie?” Phillipa asks. Arthur’s about to protest to food in the living room but Eames shoots him an almost pleading look and _oh god_ , the kids are going to get whatever they want tonight and Cobb is going to blame it all on Arthur.

“We can put down the throw rug in front of the coffee table,” Eames says. “There won’t be a mess at all.” Arthur doesn’t know if Eames is talking more to the kids or to him.

“What do we want to watch?” he asks with a sigh.

James says something that sounds like, “Monsters Ink!” Arthur doesn’t know what that means, but Phillipa goes digging through one of the bags still sitting on the floor and produces the DVD. So he sits gingerly on the edge of the couch, holding his plate over the throw rug the kids are sitting cross-legged on, making sure not to drip pizza grease anywhere. After a few minutes Eames grabs his arm and pulls Arthur down alongside him, snug against the cushions.

The movie is ridiculous for a while, about colorful furry closet-monsters trying to scare children. Then Arthur settles against Eames’ side and James climbs onto his lap and Phillipa curls up against Eames’ other side. Then Kitty is trying to find this little girl that means everything to him, and the little green monster fights with him the whole way, but in the end they do it, and Kitty gets back to this kid who means more than his job and his safety. And Phillipa is crying. Because she’s old enough to remember when her father wasn’t there, and a little bit of when her mother was. She remembers Cobb coming home. She doesn’t know just how much he put on the line to get back to her and James, but she knows he burst through the door and broke down when she called out to him and she knows exactly how this goes.

So Phillipa is sobbing into Eames’ shoulder. He pets her hair, making little shushing noises as her gathers her onto his lap. Arthur is frozen.

“What’s wrong?” James asks, tugging on the front of Arthur’s t-shirt. He scoops James up and goes out onto the patio, closing the door gently behind him to block out the sound of Phillipa, for James’ sake and for his own.

They sit side by side on uncomfortable metal chairs, James swinging his socked feet as they count the cars driving by. Arthur is looking for nine white cars. The concrete is cold under his toes.

“Is Phil okay?” James asks. He’s surprisingly patient when he knows something serious is happening. He’s still staring down at the street, trying to spot seven red cars.

“She will be,” Arthur says. “She’s with Eames.”

James smiles and then says, “I got seven!”

They play three more rounds before Eames opens the door and asks who wants ice cream.

~

“How are things?” Ariadne asks. Arthur can hear her grin through the shitty continent-spanning cell service.

“Just fine,” he answers, grabbing James’ hand before he can snatch the sprinkles right off the counter.

“Is that Cobb?” Eames is scooping chocolate ice cream into four bowls, but Arthur knows better, has seen Eames do terrible things while looking infinitely more ridiculous, and so he takes the glower seriously. “If he’s already checking up on us like we can’t handle less than twenty-four hours –”

“No, no, it’s Ari,” Arthur says quickly. “Though Cobb is probably mouth-breathing on the other line right now, listening to us.”

“Like you wouldn’t have traced his signal by now and called to bitch him out,” Ariadne scoffs. “But seriously, no disasters or even minor mishaps yet?”

“Nothing to write home about,” Arthur says drily.

“Love, what kind of sprinkles do you want?” Eames asks, and Arthur tells him chocolate without pause. Then he blinks.

“Oh my God, I can’t even fucking handle you two,” Ariadne practically squeals. “I just, really, adorable is not a word I would apply to either of you separately, but _oh my God_.”

Eames leans close and says loudly, “Thank you, pet, I appreciate it, I really do, but if you’re done spying now I’d like to eat my dessert in peace, yeah?”

“Relax,” laughs Ariadne. “Just because I’m scoping out a location for our next job with Cobb doesn’t mean I’m going to tell him everything you guys say.”

“Yes it does,” Cobb shouts from somewhere in the background.

Arthur snorts and asks, “Can I confirm or deny any other suspicions for you two, or am I allowed to hang up?”

“I’ll just say good night to them now,” Cobb says, apparently having stolen Ariadne’s phone entirely. “Because they’re going to bed soon. Right, Arthur?”

“You’re not _my_ father. Stop that,” he huffs.

“And thank God for that,” Eames and Cobb say in unison.

Eames places their bowls in front of the kids in the living room, where they’re watching Spongebob, and Arthur hands off the phone. Adorable isn’t a part of Arthur’s vernacular, but Eames grabs the other two bowls and plops down on the couch, smiling up at him, and _Jesus fuck_ Arthur’s internal monologue needs to cool its shit or something.

~

Arthur moves the coffee table and sets up the couch bed, because Eames is on pajama duty. James is yelping somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen and Cobb seems to have packed Phillipa the wrong nightgown. Arthur prefers the manual labor.

Eames shows up with a giggling kid hanging from each arm, dropping them gently on the blankets Arthur just arranged. He contains his sigh.

“Right,” Eames says. “Under the covers now. Come on.” He manhandles James until he’s lying down as Arthur smoothes the comforter over Phillipa.

“Do we get a story?” Phillipa asks, and that grin is the exact same one Mal used whenever she was screwing around with Arthur.

“Does your dad usually tell you one?” he asks, letting the skepticism drip into his voice.

“Nope,” James says contentedly, eyelids already drooping as Eames pets at his hair like he’s a cat.

“Don’t you try that on me,” Arthur says when Phillipa starts to set into her pouty face. “It won’t work.”

“It works when Eames does it!”

Arthur sputters as Eames laughs and says, “Why don’t you tell us a story, Philly?”

“Fine,” she says, pulling at Arthur until he sits down and leans back against the cushions. Eames does the same on the other end. “Once upon a time there was a prince who thought he was right all the time and he was really nor – ner –”

“Neurotic,” Eames suggests casually.

“Neurotic,” Phillipa repeats, her vowels rounded like Eames’. “And everyone wanted him to relax and smile and have fun but he wouldn’t. So one day this cuh –” Phillpa turns to Arthur. “What is Yusuf?”

“A chemist,” he answers warily.

“A chemist gave the prince a potion and told him that if he didn’t find someone who could make him laugh and smile and be silly, he would be stuck being neat and sad forever. And he’d always have to be dressed all fancy all the time, which isn’t very comfortable.”

Grinning, Eames reaches over and brushes back Arthur’s hair, soft and curling against his forehead. Arthur’s pretty sure no one could blame him for being unable to maintain his poker face at that.

“So the royal subjects were like, ‘Oh man, we have to find someone fun who can make Ar – I mean, the prince laugh and smile.’ The best knight in the court went off on an adventure for ages and ages looking for somebody for the prince.”

Arthur brushes Phillipa’s hair back. She smiles up at him, and there’s barely a hint of anything sad to it anymore, all traces of the sobfest from earlier gone.

“So the knight brought back this jester, and he could tell jokes and loved to play games and was never sad, but the prince was always mad at him, because he liked being right and proper too much to be silly.”

Eames tugs on Arthur’s earlobe from where he’s got his arm draped along the back of the couch, smiling softly. He’s wearing that look he gets sometimes that says, _Why the hell didn’t we get around to this sooner?_ Arthur replies with one that he hopes conveys, _Because I’m an asshole. Sorry._

“Then this maiden showed up, and for a little bit the subjects thought she might become the princess, but she couldn’t make the prince laugh. They were together a lot and drank coffee and drew boring pictures and listened to silly music and she was okay and all but it wasn’t _good_.”

Eames snorts outright at that and Arthur is maybe a little bit embarrassed of the way Ariadne had clung to him and the way he’d given in, right after the inception, acting like pretentious college kids. It was hard to remember sometimes that Ariadne still was one but Arthur wasn’t. But they’d never actually gone anywhere.

“But then one day, the prince smiled when the jester called him his darling, and he laughed when the jester told jokes, and sometimes he even played games. And one day the prince came to the knight’s house wearing jeans and the whole court knew that the spell was broken and everything was good. And now the prince laughs all the time and he and the jester are happy.”

Phillipa looks at Arthur very seriously for a moment, and then glances over at Eames.

“Right?” she demands.

“Yes,” Arthur says, locking eyes with Eames, whose fingers are playing with the curls at the base of his neck. “Right. We’re happy.”

~

Arthur closes their bedroom door behind him as softly as possible. James had conked out halfway through the story ad Phillipa was nearly there herself. They’ve left the hallway light on and Arthur fully expects someone will come bursting into their room at least once tonight. He slides on a pair of sweatpants – he’s frankly not sure whose, or if that even matters anymore – and on of Eames’ stretched-out t-shirts, collapsing on top of the covers.

“Come on, budge over,” Eames says, trying to shift the comforter out from under him as he lies down.

“Kids are tough,” Arthur says into his pillow.

“I’m sure Cobb will appreciate the revelation, darling. Now move.”

Arthur works up the energy to lift himself off the covers momentarily, and then lets Eames manhandle him around until they’re spooned together, Eames almost too warm against his back.

“Good night, sweet prince,” Eames mumbles against the back of his neck.

“Asshole,” Arthur breathes, absolutely not snuggling back into the embrace.

Yeah, he’s pretty happy.


End file.
